


Les Petites Histoires

by Iclare



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-24
Updated: 2019-09-06
Packaged: 2020-09-25 22:44:26
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,960
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20379349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iclare/pseuds/Iclare
Summary: Various one-shots - more than likely hurt!d'artagnan - open to requests if anything springs to mind.





	1. Broken Promise

A moan from across the candlelit room had D’Artagnan raising his weary head from where it had fallen against the mattress. He was slumped on the floor, his jacket discarded and his shirt sleeves rolled up. He clutched a damp cloth in his hand. The smell of illness was clinging to the walls of the darkened room and D’Artagnan felt his shirt sticking to his back with the heat. 

‘Athos?’ He called out, reaching up to wet the cloth in a bowl of cool water beside him and wipe his brother’s face. The fever had struck him down just a day after Aramis and Porthos had become ill and refused to let him go. D’Artagnan had honestly lost count of how many times he had emptied and cleaned the chamber pots in the room, all three soldiers having been violently ill until there was nothing left from them to vomit. 

Athos groaned at the feeling of the cool cloth on his overheated skin and his eyes fluttered open, a frown crossing his face as he looked around the room. 

‘Where?’ Athos asked plainly, swallowing convulsively to keep his nausea at bay. 

‘Aramis’ room. There wasn’t enough room anywhere else,’ D’Artagnan answered with a yawn, struggling to his feet when Aramis started groaning from the bed across the room. D’Artagnan fell onto the mattress and reached for the cloth beside the bed, rinsing the cool water from it and placing it against Aramis’ forehead. 

‘Why not the infirmary?’ Athos asked through a groan and D’Artagnan made his way towards the fireplace where heated bricks lay ready to soothe aching muscles. 

‘It’s full. A lot of others are ill as well. I figured you lot would be more comfortable here than in a packed infirmary,’ D’Artagnan explained, wrapping the bricks in warmed blankets beside the fire and placing one beside Aramis’ stomach and another beside Porthos’. 

‘Have you been taking care of us?’ 

‘Well no one else was going to,’ D’Artagnan responded with a smirk, moving aside the blankets and setting the heated brick beside Athos’ aching belly. 

‘That feels amazin’, lad,’ Prothos called from his sick bed, rolling over until he was lying on top of the brick and sighed in relief. 

D’Artagnan chuckled and shook his head, slumping down onto the chair beside Athos’ bed and exhaling deeply. 

‘Are you alright? Did you not get ill?’ Athos asked, narrowing his aching eyes as he took in his young friend. 

The young Musketeer nodded in earnest. 

‘Truly I’m fine. The sickness didn’t get to me. Probably because you’re all getting on in years,’ D’Artagnan teased in an effort to both lift his friends’ spirits and also remove the attention from himself. He wasn’t feeling ill but he felt exhaustion creeping up his spine and making him want to collapse with tiredness. It had been a long few days. 

‘How long have we been ill?’ Aramis’ croaking voice made him jump out of his thoughts and he offered him a smile. 

‘3 days, give or take. I think you’re on the mend now though. None of you have vomited in a while,’ D’Artagnan explained, gathering up his remaining reserves and pushing himself back to his feet. He opened the window and felt the cool twilight breeze brush passed him. 

‘3 days? Have you slept at all?’ Aramis asked, struggling to push himself up, his arms weak beneath him. 

‘I have slept. Not a lot, but I slept. I promise. Do you think you could handle some food? Serge has had broth made for anyone who feels up to it?’ 

Aramis scrutinised the boy in front of him before nodding reluctantly. Even in the darkened room he could see the dark bags hanging under D’Artagnan’s eyes and the bowed shoulders; evidence of too many long hours sat caring for them. 

‘I could always eat!’ Porthos assured D’Artagnan, pushing himself up and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. He immediately regretted the sudden movement as the world span before him but he planted his feet on the ground. ‘Any chance of some wine to go with it?’ 

‘I’ll see what I can do. The Captain probably won’t be too happy with you drinking wine so soon but I’ll try and sneak some in. Don’t squeal on me.’ 

D’Artagnan left the room quietly and Aramis relaxed against his headboard. The other two soldiers lay on cots against the walls, blankets towering over them. 

‘How do you feel, honestly? The boy has gone,’ Aramis asked, pulling his sweat soaked nightshirt away from his chest. If he had enough energy he would have loved a long soak in a tub to clean the illness off him. 

‘Been better. Feel like I could sleep for a week,’ Porthos groaned as he stretched his back. He pulled his shirt off and threw it to the foot of his bed. Grabbing a cloth from the bowl beside his bed he wiped it across his chest and under his arms to remove the sweat. He sighed deeply. 

‘That’s better.’ 

Athos could barely lift his head from the pillow beneath it. His muscles ached and his head throbbed. His eyes drifted closed and before he knew it he was asleep. 

D’Artagnan was back moments later, a tray in his hands. 

‘I managed to sneak a bottle from the kitchen, don’t tell Treville,’ he said with a smirk, setting the tray down on the table and pulling a bottle of wine from the waistband of his trousers. 

‘Aw kid, you’re a lifesaver. In more ways than one,’ Porthos assured him with a nod, pushing himself to his feet and stumbling over to the table. He collapsed into the chair, almost inhaling the bowl of soup and bread before him. D’Artagnan rolled his eyes before grabbing a bowl and bringing it over to Aramis. 

‘Try and eat something. It’ll make you feel better.’ 

‘I’m usually the one taking care of you, remember? I know what to do,’ Aramis said with a fake sigh, his trembling limbs taking the bowl with a smile. 

‘I remember all too well. And I hope you won’t have to take care of me again too soon. Just take care of yourself for a change,’ D’Artagnan patted Aramis’ shoulder before he stood up and shrugged his jacket on. He was buckling on his weapons belt when Porthos grunted, pointing at him questioningly with his spoon. 

‘Where do you think you’re off to?’ 

‘Guard duty. There are so many ill there aren’t enough to cover. I’m taking the night watch tonight but I promise I’ll be back in the morning.’ 

‘Don’t bother,’ Athos groaned, having been awoken by his brothers talking. ‘Just get some rest. No sense in you getting ill as well.’ 

‘I won’t, I promise,’ D’Artagnan responded with a smile and a salute and he was out the door. 

‘Foolish boy,’ Athos sighed.

‘He’s running himself into the ground,’ Aramis tutted, setting his empty bowl of soup on the table beside his bed. ‘He’s going to get sick.’ 

‘He’s one of the few that hasn’t. Let’s hope it stays that way,’ a voice from the doorway called. The soldiers looked up to see their Captain entering the room with a smile. 

‘How are you feeling? It’s been a long few days.’ 

‘On the mend, apparently,’ Athos responded, pushing himself into a seated position to face his superior, ‘How many are ill?’ 

‘All but six,’ Treville responded with a sigh, taking a seat beside Porthos at the table. He noted the bottle of wine and smirked at the younger man. 

‘I didn’t tell you about that,’ Porthos pointed out through a mouthful of bread. 

‘The secret’s safe with me,’ Treville chuckled. He sighed and looked at his men. 

‘I’m glad to see you’re feeling better. I hope to have you back to full strength again soon. God knows D’Artagnan needs a break. Running himself ragged. I’ll make sure when he’s finished guard duty he goes straight to his quarters.’ 

Athos nodded gratefully. He thought about asking Porthos to bring him some wine but his eyes started closing of their own accord. Before he could get the words out of his mouth he was asleep. 

The three soldiers slept until late the next afternoon and woke with aching muscles but a renewed energy. After a quick wash in the bath house and a fresh set of clothes they made their way to their usual table and were greeted by Serge’s smiling face. 

‘Glad to see you three up and about,’ he nodded, placing a basket of bread before them. ‘I’ll bring some soup out for you too.’ And with that he disappeared back into the kitchen. 

Aramis poured them all some wine as they watched the garrison coming alive. It was strange to see so few soldiers about so late in the day. 

‘Ah gentlemen, glad to have to back,’ Treville called as he trotted his horse through the gates. He slid off his horse’s back and handed the reigns to the stable boy. 

‘Where is D’Artagnan?’ were Athos’ first words. Treville smiled at him. 

‘As promised, he was sent straight to his room this morning.’ 

‘I’m sure he appreciated being sent away like a bad child,’ Porthos smirked around his wine glass. 

‘He was exhausted. I don’t think he was thinking much of anything. Maybe, after breakfast, you can check on him,’ Treville stated in a thinly veiled suggestion before walking to his office. 

A shared look passed between the three friends and they were heading towards D’Artagnan’s room before Serge returned with their soup. 

The first thing that hit the Musketeers when they entered D’Artagnan’s quarters was the stench of illness and vomit and it stopped Aramis in the doorway. 

‘He’s sick,’ he stated, pointing at the window for Porthos to open it and walking towards the bed. Athos stepped into the room behind him, noticing the fact that D’Artagnan was lying coverless on the bed, solely in his shirt and braies. He spotted the stained sheets piled in the corner of the room, the vomit-filled chamber pot not far away from them. 

Aramis knelt beside the shivering boy and placed a hand on his forehead. 

‘Burning up,’ he sighed, resting back on his heels and taking in the full form of his suffering brother. Even beneath the shirt he could see D’Artagnan’s stomach muscles contracting painfully as the spasms wracked through him and Aramis winced in sympathy. He slid his hand under the young man’s shirt and rested it on the taut stomach. 

‘Porthos, could you run and grab some heat bricks from the infirmary? His stomach is in agony.’ 

Porthos took off at a jog, his muscles still aching from his illness but unwilling to let his brother suffer if he could help it. 

Athos sat on the opposite side of the bed, resting his hand in D’Artagnan’s hair. 

‘We should try and get him warmed up. God knows how long he’s been lying here like this,’ Aramis nodded, pulling himself to his feet and leaving the room to remove the dirty linen and replace it with clean sheets. 

Athos couldn’t take his eyes off his protege. 

‘You stupid boy. Why didn’t you tell anyone you were ill? Why didn’t you get help?’ Athos sighed, pushing D’Artagnan’s hair back from his face. D’Artagnan’s face was pale and his teeth were chattering. A groan left the boy’s lips and his dark eyelashes fluttered against his fever-stained cheeks as he opened his eyes. He blinked owlishly around the room, not entirely sure where he was. He turned his head when he felt a presence beside him and Athos smiled down at him. 

‘Foolish boy,’ Athos admonished lightly, pressing a hand to the warm forehead. D’Artagnan leant into the touch, sighing at the coolness of Athos’ palm. He opened his mouth to ask how Athos was; one of his last memories being his mentor ill in bed but was cut short when he felt his stomach revolting against him. 

‘No,’ he whimpered, pushing weakly at Athos to move but the man refused to budge from his side. With one last burst of energy, D’Artagnan pushed himself up and over Athos’ lap, just in time for his body to start gagging. After the hours he had already spent vomiting there was nothing left for him to expel except for a small amount of bile that he was thankful hit the floor and not his friend. He whimpered at the burning in his throat and the agony in his stomach as his body continued to gag. 

Athos winced in sympathy as he felt the boy’s stomach muscles contracting painfully against his thighs and he rubbed a soothing hand up and down the boy’s quivering back. He was thankful when the gagging stopped and D’Artagnan took a moment to control his breathing. He was spent. He had nothing left. No energy to move. 

‘Gimme a minute,’ D’Artagnan mumbled, sucking in a breath and trying to gather the energy to push himself off of Athos’ lap. Athos simply rolled his eyes and grabbed D’Artagnan under his shoulders, rolling him back over until he was lying back on his bed. 

D’Artagnan wanted to thank his friend but a cramp shot so suddenly through his stomach that he had no choice but to curl around himself and whimper. 

‘You’ll be okay,’ Athos cooed, rubbing the boy’s back and thankful that Aramis had returned with clean bedding. 

‘He vomited again,’ Athos stated as Aramis stretched the mountains of clean blankets across D’Artagnan and tucked them in around him as a mother would a child. 

‘When was the last time you ate anything and kept it down?’ Aramis asked, the medic inside him taking over. D’Artagnan could only hum in response, not sure when he had last eaten or drank anything. If he was honest, he wasn’t even sure what day it was or how long he’d been ill. 

‘Wrong answer, kid,’ Porthos’ voice boomed across the room as he let himself into the cool room, two bricks under his arms and a pile of sticks in his hands. He sat beside the small fireplace and quickly started a fire, putting the bricks into the flames to heat. 

‘You need to eat something. Maybe some broth?’ Aramis suggested. The groan he got in return made him frown. 

‘At least have some water. You’re bound to be dehydrated,’ Aramis nodded at Athos who left to empty the chamberpot and get some water. 

‘I don’t think I can keep it down,’ D’Artagnan mumbled, pulling his legs as close to his stomach as he could and curled his arms around his pillow. He hid his face in his arms and shuddered. 

‘You need to try, kid,’ Porthos stated from his place beside the fire, poking the flames with a stick. He grabbed one of the bricks with a pair of metal tongs and wrapped it in a blanket before handing it over to Aramis. 

‘This should help, D’Artagnan,’ Aramis spoke softly, untucking the blanket at the side of the bed and reaching into the ball D’Artagnan had curled himself into. He placed the heated blanket against the quivering stomach and smiled when D’Artagnan groaned in pleasure. 

Athos came back and sat beside him, pushing his hair off his forehead until D’Artagnan’s eyes opened. 

‘Let’s try some water,’ Athos suggested with a smile, reaching behind D’Artagnan’s neck and raising it enough for him to sip the cool liquid. 

D’Artagnan swallowed the water with a sigh. He thanked Athos and allowed his eyes to close again. A whimper escaped him as another wave of agony ran through his stomach and he curled around the heated brick and hid his face in his pillow. 

‘Shh, you’ll be alright,’ Aramis whispered, petting the boy’s sweat soaked hair. Porthos added more wood to the fire before standing up and heading for the door. 

‘I suspect we’ll be here for the rest of the night. Wine?’ He asked, leaving before the other two replied. He knew the answer. 

It took longer than the soldiers would have liked but eventually D’Artagnan’s body relaxed into sleep, his stomach muscles still trembling. 

‘He broke his promise,’ Aramis stated with a smirk. Athos raised an eyebrow at him. 

‘I’ll be sure to reprimand him when he awakens.’ 

‘Make sure you do.’ 

D’Artagnan awoke several hours later, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth. He peeled his eyes open and looked dazedly around the room. His friends were asleep in various positions around the room but a smile graced his face when he felt Athos’ hand gripping his from where his friend was asleep in the chair beside his bed. 

For a moment D’Artagnan thought about waking his friends but he didn’t have the heart to. He was sure his friends were still tired from their own illnesses. He closed his eyes and fell asleep quickly. He would thank them in the morning.


	2. Cloaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cloaks provide protection, in more ways than one.

When D’Artagnan regained consciousness it was to the sound of rain and the smell of sweet, damp undergrowth. He peeled his eyes open and blinked around him. He was aware he was lying on his front, the unmistakable scent of wine and horse telling him that the cloak beneath his head belonged to Athos. The musketeer recruit furrowed his eyebrows and tried to remember what had happened.

He tried to turn his head but a shot of pain ran from his shoulder through his spine and he halted all movement. He could hear footsteps approaching and he held his breath in a moment of panic.

‘Shh, it’s alright lad, it’s only me.’ D’Artagnan let out his breath when Porthos’ low voice swept over him and his firm hand rested on the base of his back.

‘You’ve been injured but Aramis patched you up. He’s certain you’ll be alright,’ Porthos explained, kneeling down in D’Artagnan’s line of vision.

D’Artagnan nodded gently, careful not to move his shoulder. He could feel the thick padding tied to his back just above his right shoulder blade and assumed that’s where he had been injured.

‘Water?’ He croaked, his tongue feeling swollen and his head feeling light from blood loss.

‘There’s some over here and I have some broth ready for you to try and get your strength back. Do you think you can sit up?’

‘If you help me,’ D’Artagnan confirmed, reaching a hand out from under his blanket and holding it out to Porthos. It took a few minutes but soon enough D’Artagnan was settled as close to the fire as he dared, a mug of broth in his hands and Aramis’ lavender-scented cloak wrapped around his shoulders.

‘What happened? Where are the others?’ D’Artagnan asked around small sips of soup. His stomach was rolling but he was adamant he wasn’t going to make a fool out of himself by being sick in front of a musketeer. It was already bad enough that he had gotten himself injured.

‘They went on with the missive. We weren’t too far from the Comte’s estate so they figured it best for us to stay here and they go on ahead. They’ll be back soon. And when they’re back be ready for a tellin’ off from Athos. He ain’t best pleased with you,’ Porthos shook his head, a false scowl on his face. He could see D’Artagnan’s face pale and allowed himself to crack a smile.

‘Aw you’ll be fine, lad. He’s not really upset. What was it he said?’ Porthos took a dramatic pause to remember the words. ‘Ah yes. “Does that boy have no self-preservation? Or is it just a habit of risking his life for trained soldiers?”’ Porthos finished with a smirk, reaching over and plucking the empty mug from D’Artagnan’s hands, replacing it with some water. He took a moment to pull Aramis’ cloak tighter around the boy’s shoulders.

D’Artagnan wanted to repeat his question about what had happened but the memory came flooding back to him.

_ The three musketeers had been given a mission to deliver a letter of importance to a Comte who lived a half-days ride away from Paris. Tréville had permitted D’Artagnan to go as well as part of his training - and also because he couldn’t stand the thought of D’Artagnan being left unsupervised and without his mentor. Honestly, he had told Athos during one of their meetings, the boy was a magnet for trouble. _

_ That statement proved more than truthful as, only a mile from the Comte’s estate, they were set upon by a group of bandits. While their technique and skills left much to be desired, their numbers more than made up the difference. Even D’Artagnan, who had only been training with the soldiers for a few months, easily dispatched 4 in minutes. _

_ The other musketeers worked together as a well oiled machine, each well aware of where the others would be positioned and jumping in to assist should they be called for. D’Artagnan, working outside the group, was able to see the attack before the rest, his vantage point showing a scarred bandit running up behind Athos while he was busy fighting 2 others. _

_ D’Artagnan’s voice stuck in his throat as he went to shout a warning to his mentor. He debated whether he would be able to stop the attack in time but abandoned his thought and took off at a run instead. He would make it, he was sure of it. _

_ Porthos shouted a warning to Athos who turned just in time to see his attacker raise a dagger and prepared to stab him. Athos gritted his teeth and braced himself for the pain; he knew he couldn’t defend the attack. _

_ The pain came from the side and wasn’t the sharp pain of a blade he was expecting; instead the pain came from an 18 year old Gascon slamming into side and hurling him to the ground. The wind was knocked out of his lungs as he hit the forest floor but he inhaled quickly when he heard D’Artagnan shout out in agony and watched as the younger man slumped into the nearest tree. _

_ Aramis shouted out D’Artagnan’s name and ran towards him, ducking under Porthos’ swinging arm as he took out one of the few remaining attackers. Aramis caught the boy before his knees hit the dirt and he wrapped his arms around his waist, lowering him to the ground, his lips close to his ear as he whispered words of assurance. _

_ ‘’Ow is he?’ Porthos asked as he stomped over, his eyes searching the trees for any further bandits but relaxed when he was satisfied the battle was finished. _

_ ‘Stabbed,’ Aramis deadpanned without turning, D’Artagnan choking out a laugh beneath him. Porthos rolled his eyes and walked over to help their leader to his feet. Athos reached out an arm and Porthos pulled him upwards, a gasp eliciting from Athos’ mouth.  _

_ ‘You good?’ Porthos grunted, a hand on his friend’s back to steady him. Athos only nodded in return.  _

_ Athos limped towards Aramis and D’Artagnan, an arm wrapped tight around his aching ribs. _

_ ‘How is he really?’ Athos asked, all but collapsing beside his brothers on the grass.  _

_ ‘He’ll survive. He’ll be in pain for a while but nothing he can’t handle,’ Aramis stood quickly, rushing over to his horse and returning with his saddlebags. He emptied his flask of brandy over D’Artagnan’s shoulder, wincing as the boy shouted in pain.  _

_ ‘Sorry,’ he apologised softly, threading a needle and starting his stitching. D’Artagnan felt every stitch, ever needle jab. It was horrible. But a swish of blue caught his eye and he watched as Athos shed his cloak and folded it. Their leader lifted D’Artagnan’s head and slid the cloak under it, his hand resting on his head.  _

_ ‘Thank you,’ D’Artagnan breathed, his breath hitching as Aramis continued to stitch.  _

_ ‘You were lucky they didn’t hit bone. Any further right and you’d be in a lot more pain,’ Aramis called out and D’Artagnan resisted the urge to roll his eyes. _

_ ‘I think I’m in enough pain as it is,’ he responded, sharing a smile with Athos. He hissed as he felt the thread pull through his skin and his body shuddered. Athos patted his head gently.  _

_ ‘Go to sleep. You’ll feel better when you awaken.’  _

_ Whether it was the cloak beneath his head, the loss of blood, or Athos’ comforting hand in his hair, D’Artagnan drifted off.  _

Porthos watched as D’Artagnan shivered, even under the heavy cloak, the cup of water in his hands sloshing to the ground. His teeth were chattering together and his eyes were crinkled in pain. The rain dripped around them but they were protected by the crop of trees above them. A cool evening wind rushed passed them and even Porthos shuddered at the chilled air.

‘C’mere,’ Porthos started, shuffling closer to D’Artagnan until their arms were touching.

‘Was Athos alright? I pushed him over,’ D’Artagnan queried, wrapping his functional arm around his torso, the other lying useless at his side.

‘He’s fine,’ Porthos chuckled, ‘I think he’d take a few bruises over a knife to the chest any day.’

Porthos watched D’Artagnan’s pale face struggle to contain a wince as he shifted on the ground and sighed. 

‘Aramis left something to take the edge off but said you should only take it if you really need it. I think you really need it,’ Porthos stated, leaning over and grabbing his saddlebag and producing a small vial from the pouch. 

‘No,’ D’Artagnan shook his head, swallowing down his nausea, ‘I can manage.’ 

‘D’Artagnan-’ Porthos started but was abruptly cut off. 

‘No. I can manage,’ D’Artagnan stared into Porthos’ eyes with a pleading look, his pale face and his shivering form causing Porthos’ stomach to turn to ice. 

‘No need to put on a brave face, kid. If you’re hurt you don’t have to hide it.’

‘I’ll survive. Besides Athos and Aramis will be back soon and I doubt I’d make it halfway back to Paris if I’m drugged.’ 

Porthos snorted and D’Artagnan scowled in return. 

‘If you think we’re even goin’ to attempt to head back to Paris while you’re injured I don’t think you know us at all.’ 

‘I’ll make it.’ 

‘I have no doubt about that,’ Porthos huffed, ‘Look, let me explain something to you. We’re your brothers. You’re hurt. It’s our job to look after you when you’re hurt. And if that means Athos has to fork out some of his Comte silver then so be it.’ 

D’Artagnan grinned and Porthos felt a bit of his worry lift. 

‘Alright. Give me some of that then,’ D’Artagnan held out his hand and Porthos handed him the vial.

D’Artagnan uncorked the vial and struggled to contain a gag at the smell that emitted from it. He held his breath and downed the liquid, shuddering at the bitter taste. 

‘There now. You’ll be right as rain soon,’ Porthos smiled, shuffling to get into a comfier position on the hard ground. His elbow bumped D’Artagnan’s bandaged shoulder and it took all the boy’s energy to contain his gasp of pain. The padding around the wound did little to soften the blow and the pain radiated across his shoulders and down his spine. 

The world dimmed before his eyes and he could hear Porthos calling his name but it sounded like he was underwater. He took a deep breath to steady himself but it didn’t help and he felt his head slump onto Porthos’ shoulder. 

‘There now. Take a minute. You’ll be alright,’ D’Artagnan became aware of Porthos talking to him slowly and he was sure several minutes must have passed since his shoulder was hit. 

‘I’m okay,’ D’Artagnan croaked out, attempting to lift his head from Porthos’ shoulder but aware that the older man had his hand placed against his hair, petting it with a gentleness that belied the man’s size. 

‘No you’re not. But you will be. I’m sorry,’ Porthos frowned, allowing D’Artagnan to raise his head and blink around him. 

‘S’okay. We’ll keep it between us,’ D’Artagnan grinned lazily and Porthos knew the pain relief had kicked in. 

‘Alright, time for a lie down, ‘eh?’ Porthos stood and removed his vanilla-scented cloak, shaking it out and laying it on the leaves below them. He indicated for D’Artagnan to lie down on it and the boy shuffled across. Porthos replaced Athos’ cloak and helped D’Artagnan lay his head on it again, lying firmly on his stomach and avoiding all contact with his wound. He spread Aramis’ cloak across the boy’s back, unconsciously tucking it in around him. 

‘Thanks, P’thos,’ D’Artagnan mumbled and closed his eyes. He wasn’t aware that he had fallen asleep but knew he was dreaming. He dreamt of swords slashing at him, blood dripping and angry faces shouting. He dreamt of blue cloaks covering him, the swords bouncing off them, doing no damage. He dreamt of the heat of 3 warm bodies standing protectively in front of him. 

He awoke with a start and was quickly shushed and calmed by a hand on his head and another gripping his calf. 

‘You’re alright. You’re safe,’ Athos’ warm voice soothed him and he felt Porthos’ firm hand squeeze his leg. He was aware of Aramis moving the bandage from his shoulder and checking the wound but his touch was like feathers and he felt no pain. 

He blinked several times, aware he was losing time between each blink but was very aware of Aramis’ cloak being draped back over him when the medic was done with his examination. He could hear them speaking over him but they were quiet and his nose was filled with lavender, vanilla, and wine, and the scents drew him back to sleep. He was safe. 


End file.
